


Wound Around His Fingers

by Skalidra



Series: DC Mirror!verse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Anal Sex, Branding, Burns, Consent Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Mirror Universe, Non-Graphic Violence, Power Imbalance, Restraints, Sadism, Scarification, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9473570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Dick is the captain of the ISS Nightwing, one of Starfleet's best ships, serving under the command of Admiral Wayne. When he's recalled to Earth, just in time for the Academy's graduation ceremonies, he takes the time to visit two promising cadets in attendance. Drake and Todd; an unlikely pair with hidden dynamics, and in need of a lesson on how the real world works. (A lesson he's happy to provide.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, yes, all those pairings are separate. The threesome tag is there purely for like, ease of searching, because it has the three of them in one room. But it really is all separate, weird as that is. Secondly, this is a _messed up_ universe. Basically, this is the Star Trek mirror universe, with transplanted Batfamily. So, spaceships, Academy, aliens, you got it. This is also _mirror_ universe Star Trek, so factor in casual, normalized violence, sexual and otherwise. No one here is nice.
> 
> So, that means this has some weird-as-fuck consent issues. Like... power issues all over the place, plus selling/demanding sex as a currency. Just, be aware. You will not find healthy relationships or interactions here.

Dick knows about them before he ever sees them, of course. Bruce tells him about the pair of new Academy students he’s been keeping an eye on over drinks on a ‘routine’ inspection of his ship, and he’s not quite good enough to hide his curiosity so Bruce takes him over his own desk in payment. He has to keep quiet enough to hear the evaluation scores and details about them that are being whispered in his ear, and that’s an interesting challenge. He doesn’t miss much; not after he sinks his teeth into his own wrist so he’s muffled.

It’s still another three years before his ship — the Nightwing; black and blue and faster than almost anything else out among the stars — gets the call to come home for maintenance. He knows he has Bruce to thank that it lines up so perfectly with graduation at the Academy, which means if he’s nice enough, if he’s _persuasive_ enough, he could get his pick of graduates. He’s very good at that, even if most of the admirals don’t trust him too near them since he slit the throat of the first captain they put him under that wasn’t Bruce.

There are already quite a few ships lingering near Earth, either in steady orbit or just far enough away to not require it, and even more docked at the massive space station they made out of the moon a long time ago. Not even a little surprising, considering the flood of new recruits about to join them.

Some will have been ordered home to take in recruits whose assignments have already been chosen, and more will have bribed or traded favors to get to be in close proximity for the graduation. Graduates are some of the nicest treats that exist; just used enough to their ways to take it in stride, without being good enough to do anything about it or be any real threat.

There are still a couple days left before actual graduation when he docks at the station, and he leaves Nightwing in the hands of the capable — if occasionally bloodthirsty — engineers for her maintenance and dismisses the rest of his crew on shore leave.

He visits Bruce first, of course. Goes right to his office and thanks him for the opportunity, like he should. Bruce is nice enough to give him the number of the room that the two prospective new recruits share too, and for that he stays, resting against Bruce’s leg and not even trying to steal looks at his work, until there’s been enough recovery time for Bruce to fuck him again. He doesn’t even complain when Bruce leaves him aching and unsatisfied, with a hard slap to his ass and an order to go find trouble somewhere else.

The guards outside the door are Bruce’s personal ones, and are smart enough not to stare or smirk at the fairly obvious bulge of his cock against his uniform. The students two corridors over aren’t quite so smart, and when one reaches for him — hulking thugs, both of them; muscle and meat shields and good for nothing else — he breaks two fingers and then a wrist for good measure, and holds it twisted with the moron on his knees until he manages to blubber an apology after the scream. The second cadet apparently has enough of a sense of self-preservation to realize he’s not just any random officer, and snaps into a salute when he looks up.

“Captain,” he points out, with a flick of fingers towards the slashes on the shoulder of his uniform that mark it. Then he pats the head of the one at his feet, and says, “Watch the hands, boys,” before he moves on.

No one else bothers him; the entire campus is embroiled in the kind of muted, sharp tension of just-before graduation, and not that many people are out. The tests are done, graduation is either confirmed or denied, and a fair chunk of the cadets will be out in the surrounding city, causing chaos and celebrating. The smarter ones know that even in just a couple days there’s a chance for further advancement, or a mistake that could cost everything, and they’ll be making the most of every moment before assignments. Only the very dumbest of cadets would celebrate inside the campus itself, before official word. With the amount of high-ranking officers hanging around there’s bound to be ones that want to work out tensions. Either by demanding service, or finding someone to beat bloody.

He remembers his own Academy days. He remembers getting fucked within an inch of his life on the regular by Bruce, and in exchange he had protection from anyone else who wanted a piece of him, on threat of extreme displeasure, and his own right to kill to protect the property of his owner. Bruce never offered him anything beyond that veil of protection; his scores were purely his own, no matter what anyone else says. Still, being a captain’s boy came with a fair share of privileges, and envy. It still didn’t compare to when he finally got to earn a position on Bruce’s ship, as more than just their captain’s pretty toy. That was _fun_.

The dorms are all but silent, and he heads to the number that Bruce gave him in a leisurely stroll, making casual note of the bits of mess in the corridor, as well as who has their door cracked. The door he ends up in front of is definitively shut, and he studies it for a moment before reaching forward and pressing the panel beside it. He can’t hear the buzz of the alert from within the dorm, which is a little odd, but a moment later the door slides open.

The man waiting inside — to the far side, one hand out of sight behind his leg — is tall, hard muscle, with sharp, blue-green eyes and a well-fitting, nearly skin-tight cadet uniform. Grey, with several easy, smooth zippers for quick removal; not all that different from the standard uniforms apart from the difference in color, and a captain’s uniform lacks that sharp, downwards v at the throat that’s cut to show off bruises that the high collar might otherwise hide. When you get to the higher ranks, ownership is even more important, but much less advertised.

He lets his gaze slip up the sharp angles of that jaw to the head of short black hair, and the white streak in it that hangs down towards his left eye. “You must be Jason,” he guesses, with a smile, and then steps forward and pushes him out of the way with fingertips to the center of that broader chest.

There’s resistance for a fraction of a second, before Jason’s gaze darts to the slashes of rank on his shoulder and he steps back to get out of the way. The dorm is neat, and two suitcases wait against one wall, apparently containing everything that won’t be necessary for these last few days. Good move. He lets his gaze slide across the room, cataloging the now-barren look to it, all the clean corners that prove that at least one of the two occupants is neat, and the blatant statement the single bed makes before looking over at the second person in the room.

Smaller, finer, with cool, crystal-blue eyes and longer black hair that looks _just_ the right length to pull, over a faintly feminine face and a pair of gorgeous lips. Sitting at the desk in the room — which has been twisted to face the door — and watching him over its surface, with an active but laid down datapad in front of him. He takes in the lack of marks down the column of that pale, slender throat, and the lack of bruises around the bits of equally slender wrists that he can see, before he approaches.

“And you must be Tim,” he says, shamelessly taking the chair opposite and leaning back into it, giving his usual smile. “I’ve heard a few things about you.”

Tim’s smile is as sharp as his, but it comes with the tilt of a head, the lowering of that gaze to the table for a moment, and it accentuates all that beauty in a way he isn't anywhere naïve enough to call accidental. Someone as small and pretty as this should have been torn apart within weeks of entering the academy, or become some captain or admiral’s personal pet. He _hasn’t_ , which means he’s a lot more formidable than his looks would suggest. Dick has a bit of experience with that.

“Captain Grayson,” Tim greets, voice quiet. Not quite yielding, but suggesting the possibility.

Jason is circling around his back, but he doesn’t pay attention to the movement; this pair isn’t stupid enough to attack a captain, let alone a high-profile captain like him. Jason comes into view a moment later anyway, to stand a couple feet away from the side of the desk, between both of them. Then he spares Jason a glance, letting his gaze linger on the dark, bruising mark of teeth just below his left ear, where it’s partially hidden by hair but still obvious to anyone not entirely oblivious. Interesting declaration of the style of this partnership; what Bruce told him about this _Timothy Drake_ must be true, because keeping a cadet as big and clearly strong as Jason in line is a tall order. Usually, the bigger they are the more stubborn and dangerous they are, if they’re not utter meatheads.

Given Jason’s exam scores, he’s pretty sure that stupid is one of the last things he is.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Tim asks, insinuation all but dripping from the question. Jason doesn’t even react to the blatant invitation, which is informative because it means that this isn’t a possessive protectiveness.

He looks back at Tim; over the slender line of his wrists and his pale, thin fingers. “Lots of things, I’m sure,” he answers first, and then stretches both legs out and turns the chair partially sideways, so his lap is open and the return invitation obvious. “Would you like to give me a show, cadet?”

Tim doesn’t move, but he does smile again. “Usually I like to know what I’m buying before I pay,” comes the smooth counter, but then Tim slides off his chair, circling the desk towards him. He passes right between the desk and Jason, and Jason watches but is still and silent. No grasping fingers or automatic body language to suggest he wants to stop Tim.

Dick waits, letting Tim come right up to him, standing just to the side of his knees. A tacit declaration that Tim would rather sit sideways than straddle him, at least for now.

“What can you give me, Captain?” Tim asks, voice lower now, purposefully breathy.

He reaches out, wrapping his fingers around one of Tim’s wrists, rubbing over the delicate underside in slow circles with the pad of his thumb. “I have the ear of Admiral Wayne,” he murmurs, and pulls Tim down onto his lap. He’s a little heavier than expected, but he also settles easily into the curve of Dick’s side and shoulder, not pulling against the grip on his wrist. “But why should I give you anything?” he breathes, into the shell of an ear. “People fight to be favored as a captain’s boy.”

Tim turns his head, facing him and looking up through thick eyelashes to murmur, “People fight over the last piece of chicken in the mess, _sir_.”

He can’t quite help the laugh that tears free. “True; looks like some of what I was told about you is true after all.”

“And what were you told about me, sir?”

He smiles, letting go of Tim’s wrist. “That you’re a threat.”

He strikes fast; pulling his blade from where it’s always stored beneath his sleeve and whipping it up to Tim’s throat before there can be more than a gasp. Tim goes utterly still, chin tilted back, and he looks up to find Jason one clearly aggressive step forward, teeth bared and a phaser in his hand, held low and expertly and aimed at just about where his heart is.

“Let him go,” Jason demands, and the low, rumbling tone of his voice is enough to pry a faint shiver from Dick’s shoulders. “Right now.”

He flattens the blade against Drake’s throat, keeps his gaze locked on Jason as he smiles. “Easy, cadet.” He leans a little closer, nipping at Tim’s ear before he says, loud enough for them both to hear, “I just wanted to see what your attack dog’s reaction would be.”

“And was it satisfactory, sir?” Tim manages to breathe the question without moving more than giving a single, abortive flick of the fingers on his left hand. Jason’s mouth curls in a snarl, but the phaser is tucked up and away inside his sleeve again, and he straightens up and out of the aggressive stance.

“It was interesting,” he grants, letting the hand at Tim’s back slide up it and then circle his throat, fingers pressing firmly but not dangerously into the vulnerable skin. The knife he lets slide away, tapping it against Tim’s thigh before he smiles up at Jason. “Come here, boy.”

Jason doesn’t look happy about it, but he moves forward and — at the directing flick of the knife — kneels to the side of Dick’s legs, on the far side from Tim. His eyes stay up, stay challenging and direct, despite the subservient position. In fact, it only seems to make the spark in those blue-green eyes brighter, and the snarl is still partly there in the twist of one side of his mouth and the flash of a small slice of teeth.

Dick reaches forward with the blade, letting the flat of it slide along Jason’s jaw and then curve down underneath it, forcing it up with the point until their gaze meets directly. “You’re not supposed to have that,” he murmurs, through a small smile. “Phasers are a restricted, military weapon available only to high-ranks, security officers, and those on away teams. How did _you_ get a hold of one, cadet?”

Jason’s snarl twists into a sharp grin for a moment. “A sloppy security officer. Going to get me disciplined for it, _Captain?_ ”

“Disciplined?” he echoes. “I could get you expelled, _cadet_.” Jason’s grin flickers away, and he twists the knife until he gets a wince, and the skin underneath Jason’s chin splits beneath the point of the blade to paint the very tip of it a dark red. “Thrown out two days before graduation… That would be a nasty way to go, wouldn’t it? Then again, everyone already knows you have _attitude_ problems.”

He lets the blade twist flat again, against the side of Jason’s throat, and turns his gaze to the side of Tim’s head. “And how long would _you_ last without someone to watch your back? You’d be someone’s boy before the end of assignments; if you’re lucky maybe they’ll still let you play at being an officer too, in between satisfying them every way you can imagine.”

Jason _growls_ , low and deep and angry. He lets his gaze drop back down, to focus on those narrowed eyes, before Jason says, “Don’t—”

“ _Jason_ ,” Tim spits, sharp and censuring. "That's enough."

"It's alright," he dismisses, as Jason's gaze dips away from his, as the clear anger gets reined somewhat back in. He pulls his knife back, tucking it up into his sleeve again and then taking Jason's chin in his hand. "You're not used to people being able to really threaten you, are you, street rat?"

Jason's gaze snaps up, eyes widening a touch, and Dick gives a small laugh and pulls at the chin between his fingers to force Jason closer, right up against his thigh and too close for Jason to do anything but tilt his head back to be able to look at him. Exposing his neck in the process, which Dick takes full advantage of as he slides his fingers down the prominent bump of Jason's Adam's apple and then down to the hollow of his throat. He lets his thumb rest there, studying the hard, defensive cast to Jason's expression.

"This isn't school anymore," he murmurs. "Captains get what they want; that's how this game works. I can hurt you. I can ruin your career. I can send you right back to the slum you came out of with a few words in the right ears. I could get you sold into slavery, if I wanted to." He lets go of Tim, flicks his free hand in command, and waits until Tim has slid gracefully off his lap and stepped away. Watching, but not interfering. Then he pushes Jason back a couple inches, lets go of his throat, and leans back into the chair. "Convince me I don't want to."

Jason pauses, and then asks, "What do you want?"

He hums out a breath, offers a smile as he looks down. "Right now? I want to drag you in front of an admiral and have you whipped to bloody pieces before I get you thrown out of the Academy.” Jason doesn't pale, but there is a sharp spark of something like fear in his eyes. "Convince me I want something else, street rat. I'd do it quickly, if I were you."

There's another moment of pause, where Jason's gaze darts up and to the side (towards Tim), but he ignores it. He keeps his gaze fixed but detached, smile cool and unyielding. He doesn't offer any suggestions either, and after that moment of stillness Jason moves, shifting closer and rising up onto his knees, a hand bracing against the chair beside his hip and the other rising to slide across his thigh. Jason's shoulders are broad, flexing against the grey uniform as he leans in and down, pressing his face to the same thigh that his hand is on.

Dick tilts his head, watching idly as Jason's mouth presses to his uniform, traveling up his thigh and then inwards, until he's mouthing at the front of his groin. A deep growl, and a less-challenging but hotter flicker of eyes up to him, sends vibrations through him. It's good, but it's not that good. Not good enough to win Jason approval, at any rate. He gets hard anyway, as Jason shifts over in between his legs — he parts them at the light press of fingers against his inner knees — and then ducks that head of black hair down. After all, his body is slowly remembering that Bruce worked it up and then left it hanging; even a half-decent mouth could get him hard at this point.

He's slightly impressed by the fact that Jason undoes the front of his uniform with just his teeth and tongue, but he doesn't offer encouragement. Not when the zipper comes down, not when teeth pull the band of his underwear down until his cock comes free, and not when a tongue slides over the base of him and then licks upward. He holds back the soft sigh of pleasure that wants to escape his throat when Jason takes the head of him between that rebellious pair of lips, accepting him in with a welcome-mat of a tongue and then — after a swallow and a shallow breath — sliding down and taking him in to the root.

He might have attitude, but Dick would guess that his tongue has soothed over more than a few disagreements. There are a fair amount of people who enjoy having the bigger, stronger ones underneath them, and there's no way that Jason's gotten through the Academy without submitting to at least a few people. His record says enough about his attitude, and resilience — most cadets don't _survive_ ten sessions underneath a disciplinary officer, let alone graduate despite it — but you can't get through the Academy like a charging bull. Those recruits don't survive either; they're more trouble than they're worth.

Dick almost reaches forward, almost curls his fingers into black hair and fucks forward, but silences the urge. This isn't about getting pleasure; it's a lesson that it just so happens he'll enjoy teaching. That this is a game, but it's not a _safe_ one anymore. There's only so much the Academy instructors can do to you, but captains? Admirals? They don't play nice, and they don't tolerate most insubordination. Not without taking excessive payment, anyway.

He's not usually a teacher, but he _does_ have a thing for the larger ones. On a more important note, he can't be seen to be soft. Jason aimed a phaser at him; that's not something that can afford to go unanswered. Threatening a captain without the power to back it up is crime enough.

Jason has a good level of skill, and he watches, feels the pleasure rising but refuses to allow any noise that builds in his throat to actually escape it. That leads to Jason pulling back, lingering around his head for a moment before letting him slide from between those now redder lips, resting on an outstretched tongue for another moment before it's allowed to slip completely off. Jason's gaze rises, looks at him, and he can see the shaken thread of uncertainty in the depth of those eyes.

Then Jason rises a little higher on his knees and reaches over. Amused, and curious, he lets Jason take his hand and pull it forward. He doesn't tense, but he watches carefully as the blade hidden up his sleeve is retrieved. Then it's pressed into his hand, and amused falls beside the wealth of _curiosity_ as Jason shifts forward and guides his hand up to press that blade against his cheek. He blinks, actually _interested_ now, as Jason tilts towards the blade. His breath almost catches as Jason _licks_ the side of the knife, eyes drifting closed for a moment.

"Really?" he asks, before he can quite strangle the reaction. Luckily, his voice comes out smooth instead of surprised.

Jason's mouth curves in a sharp smirk, and then he raises a hand to the hidden zipper at the center of his uniform, pulling it down and rolling it off one shoulder at a time. The shirt drops to the floor, and Jason rises up on his knees and leans in, head at Dick's hip as he bares his back. The sharp, raised lines of whip marks are clear down the length of his back — medics won't heal disciplinary wounds; it's a hell of a way to get messed up if you depend on your looks — and there's enough, layered over each other, that his issues with behavior would be clear even without a look at his record. (Dick wonders, as he lifts his free hand and traces it down the first few inches of one, how well Jason took the beatings.)

Then his gaze turns away from the obvious marks, to fainter lines against the rest of Jason's back, ones that don't look anything like whip marks. They look like scarred cuts, for the most part— and then his gaze catches on some that look freshly healed, and he traces a faint line with one fingertip, following the… pattern. It's a curling, deliberate pattern, all over Jason's shoulders and about a foot down his back, circling the whip marks.

"Well... aren't those pretty?" he comments, following the curve of another line that twists into a tight spiral. "Were you tied down or do you know how to hold still?"

Jason seems to have been mostly reluctant to talk, but this time he gets a faint shiver, and then a low, "Both, sir."

He lowers the blade in his hand, carefully tracing one of the scars with its point, delicate enough to scrape without actually scratching. Jason all but stops breathing. "Blade," he analyzes, "healed partially over almost immediately afterwards, but done repeatedly to encourage scarring. Not an actual medic, obviously. What do the disciplinary officers think of these, cadet?"

That gets him a rough huff of laughter, into the skin of his hip. He can feel the brush of lips. "They hit me harder. Doesn't seem to help."

He smirks at that, pressing the blade down just hard enough to draw a small bead of blood over one of Jason's shoulder blades. He gets a hard exhale for that, and he lowers his free hand, raking it through Jason's hair and tugging a bit at the faint curls. "I imagine it wouldn't." He pulls Jason up, letting the blade slide over the top of one shoulder and then rest just above his collarbone, as he holds his gaze. "You'd enjoy that too much," he says through a smile, and then shoves Jason away from him. "Try again."

There's a little flicker of anger in Jason's eyes, where he's braced on the hand he used to stop himself from falling back, and staring upwards from between Dick's legs. The hand on the ground curls partway into a fist.

“Jason—” Tim starts, and he silences the second cadet with a sharp noise of disapproval.

“If he doesn’t figure it out by himself, there’s no point,” Dick corrects. “What’s the matter, Jason? Your file says that you should be good at figuring out what people want from you.” Jason’s teeth bare for a moment, and it’s not hard to see the old, dark anger behind the reaction. He flips the knife between his fingers, letting his gaze rest idly on the spin of it as Jason straightens up a bit. "Go on then; convince me there's something that will be more satisfying than getting you thrown out of the Academy. I _love_ watching disciplinary officers work, personally; it's like a form of art, and they coax such _sweet_ sounds from their assignments."

Jason shudders a little bit, head dipping. Dick chooses not to acknowledge the edge of bright confusion, just keeps himself occupied with the blade.

Then Jason freezes in place, eyes widening, skin paling a bit as he sucks a breath in, clearly horrified by whatever the thought is that's occurred to him. Those blue eyes dart towards the knife, and he tracks the thick swallow that bobs the prominence of Jason's Adam's apple. He smiles and pays a bit more attention.

Jason's movement is halting, a little stiff, but one hand reaches down, curling into the discarded top half of his cadet uniform and… retrieving the phaser. He keeps his smile carefully calm, as Jason takes a steadying breath — as he hears Tim take a sharper one — and then shifts forward onto his knees and holds up the phaser in offering. Dick slowly stows his blade away, back into its hidden sheath, and then lifts a hand and takes the phaser.

Standard issue. Plain. Yes, that'll do nicely.

He adjusts the phaser to setting four, tilting his head a bit and offering a smile. "True; you definitely won't enjoy this, will you?"

A harder swallow. “No, Captain.”

“Good.” He lifts a food, nudging Jason back with the toe of his boot. “I’ll ask once, Cadet. Can you stay still, or do you need to be tied down?”

Jason pauses for a moment, gaze locked on that phaser, before slowly lifting it to look him in the eye. “Tie me down,” is what comes out, voice a little faint. He shifts forward, and Jason flinches back a bit from the pat of his hand.

“Good decision. Up and on the bed now, boy. Face down. Pull out whatever restraints your partner usually uses on you.” Jason, after a dazed moment, jerks into action to obey him, and he idly tucks himself back into his uniform as he watches. At least until Tim steps closer, sliding up against his side and sliding a leg in between his to straddle one thigh, head slightly ducked and eyes flashing up through the fall of dark bangs.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, sir…” Tim breathes, a hand delicately touching his chest, head tilting to bare the side of his throat as hair falls off it.

He lifts a hand, brushing the bangs away from Tim’s face and then cupping his chin, pulling him in close, as if for a kiss, before he whispers, “I’ll take what I want from you, once I’m done with him. If you want to help, you can go tie him down.”

Tim’s expression flickers for a moment into something almost resistant, but it smooths away again before he’s even positive he saw it. “As you wish, Captain,” Tim murmurs, sliding the hand on his chest up towards his shoulder, weight rocking down onto his thigh and knee _accidentally_ brushing over the bulge of his erection as Tim starts to shift away.

He snaps his hand out, grabbing a fistful of Tim’s hair and drawing him to a sharp halt before dragging him close again, enough that he can graze his teeth across the shell of that delicate ear. Then he lets Tim pull back a few inches, until their lips are almost brushing. He lets his fingers loosen, sliding around to cup Tim’s jaw as he relaxes back into the chair again. Then he curls his nails and _rakes_ them down Tim’s cheek, hard enough to draw blood and get a sharp, surprised yelp of pain as Tim flinches back. He sees Jason freeze, but ignores it as he flashes his teeth and drags Tim towards him again.

“You’re not the only one who’s played the pretty boy,” he points out, in a low hiss, and then he twists his mouth into a smile, swiping a thumb over the sluggishly bleeding scratches to smear the blood up and over his skin. “You’re a very pretty viper, Drake, but it takes one to know one. I know every trick you’ve ever even dreamed of, so don’t try to play me.” He leans in, steals a very short kiss, and murmurs, “Go tie him down. Firmly. Wouldn’t want him disrupting my aim, would you?”

Tim is breathing a little shallowly. “No, Captain. I’m sorry I tried to manipulate you, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he corrects, “just be better at it, or be prepared for the consequences when you get caught. You’re not in the kid’s arena anymore, princess.” He pushes Tim back. “Go on.”

Tim slides off his lap, gaze lowered and without any ‘accidental' touches this time.

Dick watches as Tim crosses the room, coming up at Jason’s side and taking the retrieved restraints — sturdy cable and two pairs of thick cuffs that look almost medical grade — from him. Jason is still moving a little stiffly, but he lies down on their bed without complaint, submitting his limbs to Tim one at a time. The cuffs click on around both ankles and wrists, before the limbs are pulled opposite directions. Arms up, the cable linking through the cuffs and securing to something far enough beneath the head of the bed that Jason’s arms are bent over the edge at the elbow. Legs down and partially spread, each one linked to a bottom corner. It draws him tight, probably able to wiggle, but it’s unlikely that any more than that is possible. Probably the best that can be done on a cadet’s budget, and without giving the game away.

He doesn’t comment on the way that Tim’s hand lingers just long enough to give one ankle a firm squeeze before pulling away. He stands then, testing the weight of the phaser in his hand as he approaches, considering what he wants to do. What sends the right message? What will put them back in their place without setting them entirely against him?

Tim starts to step away, and inspiration strikes. Dick reaches out, catching Tim’s arm and pulling him close. He presses his chest up against Tim’s back, lowering his head to press a deceptively gentle kiss to the side of his throat. Tim stays still, not quite stiff but not responsive either.

“Listen carefully,” he murmurs, right into the curve of that pale ear. “I’d learn to be a little more subtle if I were you, Drake. Each person who finds out that you care for him is another that can use him to hurt you. You’ve survived the Academy; you don’t need me to tell you that having visible weaknesses will get you killed.”

Now Tim’s gone stiff, breath a little sharper. His voice is low, quiet, when he answers, “He’s nothing more than a tool to me, sir. He’s more useful if he believes otherwise.”

Dick laughs, sliding his hand down Tim’s arm in a slow stroke. “ _Sell_ that lie, sweetheart. Every other person that finds out makes you less useful to me, and you really _want_ to be useful to me. I can be very good to you, if you make it worth my while, and I have connections in all the right places.”

A tense breath, and then Tim asks, "What would make it worth your while, Captain Grayson?"

He smiles, and pulls Tim with him as he heads over to Jason, to stand over him. Jason's head is turned into the bed, eyes open but not looking at them, teeth set in the clench of his jaw. Braced. Dick guides Tim to lean in and over, one knee guided to rest in the small of Jason's back for balance. He presses up against Tim's back again, his own knee down in between Jason's legs, his free arm wrapping around Tim's waist.

"A concession," he murmurs, palm pressed flat to Tim's stomach. "Proof that you understand the order of this relationship." He slides his other arm around, pressing the phaser to the center of Tim's chest. "Do you know how to use this?"

Dick's pressed close enough that he can feel the sharp flinch.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Tim stiffens a little more as the phaser is pressed into his hand, and Dick covers that hand with his own, fingers overlaying his grip on the phaser. "I'm going to guide your hand, and you're going to do what I want. Clear?"

Another quiet, "Yes, sir."

Dick carefully adjusts the phaser, double checking the setting before lowering it, pulling Tim's arm along with his. His thumb presses down, and the low whine of the beam precedes the actual blast by only a fraction of a second, searing a sharp line along the very center of Jason's back, a few inches up his spine.

Jason flinches, jerking against the cuffs with a strangled groan, but doesn't go anywhere.

He presses a soft kiss to the side of Tim's throat, feeling the rabbit-fast pulse there, and adjusts the phaser a bit towards the left. Another press, longer, as he burns a fast, diagonal line up and out to the left, almost to Jason's side. That gets them a muffled cry, muscles tensing tight for a couple moments. Long enough for the phaser to be moved again, and fired the second the tension releases to create a mirror of the line on the right side as well.

The smell of burnt skin rises, and Dick can feel it as Tim shivers, the second cry coming with a hard jerk against the restraints. He ignores it except to let his mouth curl in a smirk, tightening the arm he has wrapped around Tim's stomach to hold him still. Not that he thinks Tim will pull away, not after having gone this far and not with the theoretical threat of Dick's displeasure hanging over his head, but the pressure will help confirm the belief that he's inescapable, and there is no way out of this. Which is true enough. There's no way out that won't result in worse repercussions, at least.

Tim — despite the tension — doesn't resist him. He guides Tim's hand in searing his pattern of choice into Jason's back, feeling how much Tim dislikes it in every flinch or too-calm breath, and keeps his head ducked down, mouth to Tim's throat, so he can feel the beating of that pulse as well. He can also feel, as a sharp intake of breath, the moment that Tim realizes exactly what pattern is being put into his partner's back. Another shiver, but still no resistance, even when Jason breaks enough to start _screaming_ beneath them. Then comes tears, bitten-off words, and finally a lax surrender that only reacts to the next stripe of pain, which is just after he's started filling in the outline with broader strokes.

When it's finished, and Jason is trembling against the bed, breath coming in ragged pants and sweat shining across the bared skin of his back, he pulls the phaser from Tim's hand and sets it aside, down by the knee he has on the bed. Tim flinches when Dick brings his now-free hand back to wrap around the thinner wrist, bringing it up against Tim's chest. The symbol seared into Jason’s back — the stylized bird that adorns the bow of the Nightwing — is raw and red, set just low enough that only the very tips of the wings reach the intricate, swirled scars on his upper back.

"Why don't you tell me what the lesson was, cadet?" he prompts, keeping his voice low.

The shudder that takes Tim is harder this time, before there's a slightly shaken, "Neither of us should have tried to resist you, sir; you’re in control. You can have anything you want."

He strokes his fingers across Tim’s wrist, and grants, “Simplistic, but not entirely wrong. You can do whatever you want to _him_ —” he nods down to Jason “—but there will always be someone above you and if you let them, they’ll use him to hurt you. That won’t change, no matter how far up the ranks you climb.” He presses a little closer, tightens his grip on Tim’s wrist until he can feel the bones compress together. “Don’t _ever_ threaten a superior officer unless you’re going to follow through, Drake, and tighten the leash on your dog before he gets put down by someone a lot crueler than me.”

Tim swallows, but manages a fairly steady, “I will, sir.”

“Good.” He loosens his grip on Tim’s wrist, and tilts his head down a bit to press another brush of a kiss to the side of his throat. “So now that you understand how this works, what are you going to do to make this worth my time, little cadet? Impress me.”

A shiver, followed by a slow breath, and then Tim goes loose against him, pressing back and tilting his head in, towards his mouth and far enough that their cheeks brush together. “Let me please you, Captain?” Tim asks, voice gone low and breathy, almost pleading. “Please? I can be _so_ good for you, sir. Anything you want, I promise.”

He smiles, pulling back enough that he can brush his lips over Tim’s cheek, sliding against him. “What about your dog?”

Tim twists a little further, back arching slightly away from him as his shoulders and hips press back. “He’s not important, sir,” comes the answer, just dismissive enough that he might actually believe it if he didn’t know better. “I’m yours; let me prove it, Captain. You’re all that matters.”

He lets go of Tim’s wrist entirely, raising his hand to brush it across the curve of his jaw. “Careful; I might take you up on that, Drake. Envy of the fleet, with you at my feet. A gorgeous, sleek little _serpent_ with a nasty bite.”

A moment of resistance, a flash of blue eyes, before Tim softens again. “If that’s what you want, sir…”

The laugh that escapes Dick is low, as he bites harder at the side of Tim’s throat. “I don’t have that much of a death wish, little serpent. I don’t want to try and keep you; I’ll settle for just a taste.” He slides his hand up and curls it into Tim’s hair before pushing him down, slow and steady.

Tim’s hands come forward, bracing against the bed as he’s bent over Jason’s back. One presses down beside Jason’s head, and the other beneath his right arm, back curving into an inviting arch. Dick keeps Tim’s head pressed down for a moment before letting go and sliding that hand down the curve of his back instead, pushing the uniform top up a few inches to bare a sliver of skin. He slides one hand around Tim’s hip, and then down his thigh, pushing his leg out until it slides off of Jason and Tim ends up straddling Jason’s low back.

Dick’s hand slides back up his thigh and then around to the front, unerringly finding the zipper and pulling it down. After that, it’s easy to slide the pants off and as far as they’ll go down the split thighs. It’s enough to bare the curves of Tim’s ass; Dick’s not at all surprised that the pair of underwear revealed is tight and small, clinging like a second skin. Those come off too. He debates for just a moment before deciding that he wants more skin to play with, and he lifts his hands to strip Tim of the uniform top and discard it off the bed.

Tim is breathing evenly, shifting back into his touches with the clear practice of someone used to this sort of play. Which is particularly interesting because he doesn’t remember Bruce mentioning much about Tim using himself to pay for favors and such from the instructors and officers. Bruce knows _almost_ everything there is to know about the people that interest him; he knew every inch of Dick’s life before ever taking him, as he found out later. If Bruce doesn’t know about it, it can’t be a large part of Tim’s tactics here. (So where _did_ he get this sort of practice?)

Fingers slide down, between Tim’s legs, to explore the soft length of his cock with delicate brushes and then retreat further up, teasing the furled hole. He relaxes, arching a little bit further to tilt his hips back.

“Tell me where your lube is,” Dick demands, watching as a slight, remaining tension in Tim’s shoulders eases out.

“The drawer underneath the bed,” comes the answer. “Just to your right, sir.”

He leans off to the side, keeping a hand on Tim’s thigh as he reaches down, finding the handles and pulling the shallow drawer open. It’s mostly empty, with the exception of a sharp blade and a half-empty bottle; his mind skips to the two suitcases waiting, and what else might be hidden away in those. He retrieves the bottle and closes the drawer again, wasting no time in popping the cap open and slicking the fingers of his left hand.

Tim sighs out a breath when one of his fingers slides in, and he smirks just a bit at the lack of real resistance to the intrusion. The little serpent’s been used recently, probably something celebratory with his attack dog; he doesn’t have to be careful then.

He pushes a second finger in, watching the flicker of muscle across Tim’s upper back and the momentary clench around his fingers before he relaxes again. “Been playing, Drake?” he asks, grasping Tim’s hip with his other hand, fingers curling around the curve of it. “How recently?”

“This morning.” Tim pushes back into his fingers, voice still breathy, warm with the first bits of desire. Fake, but more than good enough to fool most people. “I’m clean, sir; I swear.”

“Well,” he starts, twisting his fingers to work Tim open enough to take him without actual damage, “we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

Tim gives a soft moan in answer, and then, “Whatever you want, sir.”

He smiles, rewarding that by crooking his fingers downwards until he finds the different texture of Tim’s prostate to rub against, which gets him a much more real moan. “Now you’re getting it, little serpent. Now, ask sweetly and I’ll keep doing this until you’re nice and open for me, instead of rushing ahead a little bit. It’ll sting like this, but it won’t hurt you badly enough to need a medic. What do you say?”

Tim pushes back into his fingers, head tilting until he can catch the flash of warm blue eyes and the part of those reddened lips; like he’s been biting at them. “Your fingers, sir. _Please_ , Captain Grayson. I want to enjoy this, sir; I want to come apart at your order, on your cock. Please, sir; let me be good for you.”

It gets to him, a little bit. Dick takes in a slower breath, holds the partially hidden glint of a single blue eye, and then pushes the breath out again with a smile. “Alright then; I can make that happen.”

His fingers push, and Tim’s head turns away again, submitting to the manipulation. With Tim’s head turned away he lets himself bare his teeth for an instant, lets himself tilt his head back as he pushes down the desire burning hot in his gut. He’s worked through worse disadvantages than a little leftover desire from a previous encounter with Bruce; one cadet can’t make him lose control, even a pretty one.

The only person in _years_ who's made him lose control is Bruce himself, and he gives that up gladly. Bruce can have every bit of him and he'll never struggle; that was the agreement they made so many years ago, after all. Protection, in exchange for loyalty. (He's not so different than Jason, in a way, but he's never going to let these two know that. That's his secret, and he won't betray Bruce's confidence like that.)

It isn't that long before Tim is pushing back against him for real, rocking into the twist of his fingers and giving small, strained noises of pleasure that feel light years more honest than the sweet moans of earlier. The now three fingers slide easily, and through the gap between the pulled-down uniform and Tim's ass he can see that Tim's gotten hard. Almost impressive, considering how shaken he was by the punishment itself, but Dick's seen more impressive before. Plus, he knows that he has talent, and there aren't many people that can resist reacting to his touch if he's really trying. He's used that to his advantage dozens of times.

He pulls his fingers away and Tim shivers, fingers curling into the sheets of the bed.

"There we go," he murmurs. "Desperate, aren't you, little serpent?"

Dick can see the refusal in the way the muscle in Tim's shoulders rolls, hear it in how his breath catches, and he gives a small laugh, sliding his slick fingers up Tim's back, following the line of his spine.

"That's alright; I have that effect on people." He pulls back just enough to locate the bottle of lube and pick it back up, using his clean hand to undo the fastening of his pants and push them down, just enough to free his cock. "I'm considering whether or not to let you get off," he comments idly, as he coats his cock in the lube. "Desperate is a good look on most people; would you beg me for relief, cadet?"

Another small shiver, before Tim arches again, head tossing back. "If you want me to, sir," comes his answer, and he gives a sharp smile, even though neither of them can see it.

"Maybe later." He shifts forward, lining up and and then pressing into Tim in one long, smooth stroke, which gets him a harder arch and a relatively quiet cry.

He takes just a moment to enjoy the feeling — the tight, slick, heat clenched down around him — before curling both hands around Tim's hips and using the leverage to set a hard, punishing pace. The slap of skin against skin is familiar, the accompaniment of Tim's cries the sort of music that Dick knows better than any other; one of his favorites. Unlike Tim, this _is_ his arena. The rest of it came secondary.

Tim knows how this goes well enough that he isn't fighting, is barely even moving against his grip. Rocking back and forth with his thrusts, arched and gasping, releasing some of the better noises he's ever heard, but allowing himself to be moved any way Dick wants. The only reaction beyond that is the way that — once he forces those hips to tilt the way he wants them — Tim cries out, sharp and sudden, when Dick drives directly against his prostate. He twists, and Dick digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise to hold him still.

Dick's not surprised that it doesn't take long for him to start to skirt that edge, tension building at the base of his spine as he uses the pretty thing beneath him. Bruce does excellent work.

Tim's thighs are trembling a bit, and it's with a bit more surprise that he realizes that Tim is equally as close as he is. It makes things easier, and he snaps his hips a little harder, leaning down to sink his teeth into the back of Tim's right shoulder. He gets a sharp yelp for that, just before the copper tang of blood hits his tongue; he lets go again a moment longer, satisfied at the reddened circle of his teeth; blood beading where his canines dug in.

He doesn't try and resist the approaching wave of his orgasm, not when he can feel the rapid, irregular clenching of Tim around him, and can hear the sharp edge to the cries he's giving. It won't take much to get Tim off after this.

Dick tightens his grip a little further as he slams in, tossing his head back and giving a cry towards the ceiling; a habit he's never managed to break, since he spent so many years playing to other's enjoyment. He's built to put on a show, even when he's the one in control. He follows it with a low moan, grinding his hips into Tim and thinking, with sharp pleasure, that Tim will undoubtedly bear the bruises of where his fingers are holding on. He can fall prey to possessiveness like any other officer, occasionally.

He enjoys the feelings for several long moments before he pulls himself together again, lowering his gaze to the tense, trembling curve of Tim's back. Tense, because Dick can see and feel how he wants to be squirming. He lets go of Tim's hip with his left hand and slides it around, wrapping his still somewhat slick hand around Tim's cock and stroking. It only takes a minute or so, punctuated by Tim's breathless, gasping sounds, for the cadet to go tight and then come with a high-pitched cry, back arching into a sharp curve.

He enjoys the sight, but more so the sharp flinch of Jason as the release splashes onto his low back that's quickly followed by a hard shudder. Tim's eyes must be closed, because there's no reaction to Jason's movements, involuntary or otherwise. Tim gives a tired moan when Dick pulls back and out, hands stroking over his hips and then squeezing, briefly, over the sore prints of impending bruises.

Dick casually tucks himself away, refastening his clothing and then slipping off the bed, arching his back for a moment to shake off the lingering effects of the orgasm. He can luxuriate later, when in better company.

"Good boy," he praises, with a pat to Tim's thigh. Tired blue eyes look up, and he leans down and slides his slick fingers — Tim flinches a tiny bit — over Tim's jaw to pull him into a brief kiss. Then he murmurs, “You can untie your dog now, little serpent.”

Dick picks up the phaser as Tim moves, watching lithe fingers pull the uniform pants back up before crawling upwards, high enough that he can reach down and release whatever bonds were holding Jason down. Thick arms immediately pull back, hands bracing as if to push upwards, and Tim’s blue eyes glance to Dick for a fraction of a second before he winds a hand into Jason’s hair and pushes his head down.

“Stay,” Tim orders, quiet but hard. Jason shivers but obeys, letting Tim undo the cuffs around his ankles too.

Then Tim starts to move off the bed, and Dick holds a hand up to stop him. Dick steps forward, cupping Tim’s jaw and bringing him into another shallow kiss, pulled into a high kneel on the bed. Then he curls his fingers into Tim’s hair, holding him still as he pulls back enough to meet his eyes and smiles.

“Before graduation, go to the Academy medics. There’s one named Leslie Thompkins; she’s loyal to my admiral, and she’ll treat the both of you. Keep the bruises on your hips, Drake; the rest you can get rid of.” Tim looks caught between gratitude and wondering what, exactly, the price for this is. He steals a last kiss, and then tugs sharply at the black hair curled between his fingers. “Have her get rid of the scars on him; they’re very pretty, but you’re broadcasting his weakness. I’ll be checking with her before I go, little serpent.”

Dick lets go and steps to the side, sinking into a crouch at the side of the bed, to catch the narrowed gaze of Jason. One hand braces, pushing him up off the bed a few inches, and Dick’s mouth curls into a sharp smile.

“I know a good handful of officers that would love to have you as a whipping boy,” he comments, and then reaches forward and sets the phaser down in front of Jason’s arm. “You can keep that,” he says in response to Jason’s incredulous look. “Don’t let anyone else know you have it; they’ll strip the skin off your back in ways you won’t like.” He ruffles Jason’s hair, gets a sharp flash of teeth, and _yanks_ at the hair still caught between his fingers in punishment. “Learn to _control_ yourself, or you won’t last, sweetheart. Learn to hide what you don’t like, and reserve your challenges for the really important things.”

He leans closer, strokes his fingers down over Jason’s jaw, and whispers, “Threaten me again, and I’ll fuck _you_ and hurt _him_ , and I’m very sure that neither of you want that. It’s not the agreement you have, is it?”

Jason shudders, and he’s about to let go and move away before Jason turns towards him and dips his head, mouth brushing the underside of his wrist. “Thank you for your instruction, sir,” Jason breathes, gaze lowered.

Dick smiles, a little more true this time. “My pleasure; try not to need it again.” He wipes his fingers off on the sheet and then stands, aiming his smile at Tim. “Good luck at graduation, Drake; try not to get in too much trouble between now and then.”

“Yes, sir,” Tim answers, head bowing for a moment. “Thank you, Captain.”

He leaves the two of them alone to recover, slipping back out into the corridor and giving a smile towards a graduate walking down it that sends them scurrying the opposite direction. He heads back through the Academy grounds, unhurried and appreciating the faint nostalgia the place inspires, as he makes his way back to Bruce’s current office.

Admirals always get somewhere private to work when they’re planet-side; it’s a rank benefit no one else enjoys. Bruce’s gaze flicks up to him when he strolls in, and the man on the opposite side of his desk — officer-colors; captain? — is dismissed with a flick of one hand and a sharp word. The man looks somewhat startled, until he looks back to see Dick. There’s a brief souring that he answers with a sharp smile, before the captain leaves.

Bruce stands as he makes himself comfortable on the corner of the desk, legs already spreading to welcome Bruce’s bulk between them as his Admiral steps forward.

“So what did you think?" Bruce asks, curling fingers under his chin to lift it, other hand sliding around his waist.

Dick lets himself be pulled close, and the hands he slides up Bruce's chest aren't even checking for weapons. "I like them," he says, letting Bruce tilt his chin higher to bare his throat. "I think they'll be excellent servants of the empire."

Bruce gives a low hum, leaning in and grazing teeth across the side of his jaw. “And?”

He echoes the hum, tilting his head in to nuzzle against the side of Bruce’s head. “They care for each other. Love, maybe, if it gets more time to grow. They both have potential individually, but I’d keep them together to make the most of it. Todd—” He gives a low groan as Bruce bites at his throat, low enough that the collar of his uniform will cover it. “Todd likes _pain_ ; Drake has him wound around his fingers. They’re both rough, but with a bit of molding they’ll be an exquisitely dangerous pair. Make them loyal now.”

Bruce’s hand presses harder to his back, and Dick curls his legs in to bring him closer. "I can pull strings if you like,” Bruce offers. “Do you want one of them? Or both?"

A laugh bursts from his throat before he can stop it, and Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Oh I don't want either of them _near_ my ship. I wouldn't trust Drake within a hundred yards of my captaincy; he’s a _viper_ with pretty scales." He rocks up against Bruce, leaning in and tilting his head to offer the potential of a kiss. "Put him on the Titan. If he survives a year, we can see about transferring him somewhere more useful. What do you think?"

Bruce smiles, lightly cupping his throat with the hand not pressed to the small of his back. "Sounds familiar. The Titan it is."


End file.
